My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

— Stories from the Roads (Not) Taken

Outside, monsters roam. They won’t hurt you, bud.  Behind his mask, curiosity battles fear. How come? Magic, she says, sidekick to his cartoon hero. Kneeling, she steps his feet into leggings, arranges a cape about his shoulders and goblets on a table. Their cream faces blush dull orange as she pours.  How’d you–  Witches’ secret. …

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Before Everyone discovered Someone’s bones,  Someone stored their faces in a box in a drawer in the middle of their dresser and,  mornings when they awoke, tried on each in turn, discarding each facsimile as smallish or loose or lacking in some necessary, elusive detail  heard about but never seen (like unicorns or potted gold), …

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Behind three-starred glass, we swirl pinot while my shade approaches the crowded intersection. Mousy hair, thin-soled Keds. A backpack, frayed, beats an awkward tempo as she scans facades and faces. Awaits the signal forward. On green, she crosses to me. Presses palms to mine, reflected.   I want to rush into the twilight. To console her. …

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